


a fine but subtle spirit dwells

by bringyouhometoo



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (only very arguably canon but whatever i'll take what i can get), Amy-centric, Episode: s06e08 Let's Kill Hitler, Episode: s07e04 The Power of Three, F/M, Gen, Grief, Mental Health Issues, Post-Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Post-Series, Pre-Canon, The End, Unhealthy Relationships, Young Amy, and is bi, and not moving on, anyway, i feel like i should clarify that because people forget it's canon, i really don't know how to tag this, i suppose it verges on emotional abuse so if you're worried about that then fair warning, it's about moving on, mels shows up, there's a bunch of flashbacks basically, there's nothing explicit or anything it's more on how you read the amy/rory stuff, these tags are going nowhere, unhappy relationships, very slightly touched on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3751066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringyouhometoo/pseuds/bringyouhometoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five times amy pond picks out flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fine but subtle spirit dwells

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old one that I've copied over from my old tumblr, because I'm actually still fairly proud of it? I should warn that it's not particularly Rory-positive, and definitely has an unhappy take on Amy/Rory. But there's not really much Amy/11 in there??? It's very much Amy-centric. Idk.

**_one._ **

“Come on, Amelia!”

“Coming,” Amelia calls back, waving absent-mindedly to her aunt; it’s nearly nine o’clock, and the bell’s about to go for registration, but today’s the first day she’s seen bluebells on the way to school.

“ _Amelia_!”

“ _Yes,_ Aunt Sharon,” Amelia half-shouts, stamping her foot in frustration and pressing her lips tightly together to stop her hands from shaking as she reaches through the chain-link fence and carefully –  _so_ carefully – plucks a single flowering stem out from between the nettles.

She’s ten minutes late, and has to go to the office to sign in, but Amelia doesn’t care; at break time, she presses the little bundle of bluebells – tied together with a string plucked from the hem of her school-dress – into her best friend’s hand.

“Happy birthday.”

Melody’s eyes grow very wide. “Amelia!”

Amelia shrugs, half-embarrassed now that the moment’s actually arrived – she just saw the bluebells that morning and wanted to pick them for Mels, so she did. “There’s eight,” she explains unnecessarily. “Like you.”

“Wow,” Mels says softly. “I’m…”

“I just knew no one else was going to say anything,” Amelia fumbles, the words spilling out in a rush. “And no one should not get  _anything_ on their birthday, that’s not fair.”

Dimly, she thinks she remembers a table crowded with birthday presents, a cake set all aglow with six tall candles, a special day trip to the countryside, just her and mum and dad – but that’s stupid, she hasn’t got a mum and dad. Aunt Sharon bought her a new doll for her sixth birthday, and then she went to the zoo with Rory and his dad.

“I’m going to make a wish,” Mels announces. “I wish we’re always together on our birthdays.”

She screws up her face and blows as hard as she can, making the bluebells flutter and almost fly apart – Amelia can’t help but laugh. “Happy birthday, Mels,” she says. “But it doesn’t come true if you tell.”

Mels gives her a wicked grin. “That’s only for candles, stupid,” she says authoritatively. “The rules for bluebells are different.”

**_two._ **

Amy’s lying upside-down on her bed, idly inspecting the chips in her nail varnish, only half-listening to Mels’ voice coming through the phone she’s loosely holding one shoulder and ear. “…Anyway, who are you taking?”

“Sorry,” Amy splutters. “What?”

Mels sounds bored already. “To prom, idiot. Who are you taking?”

Amy falls off her bed with a bump. “I…” she scrambles to sit up. “I didn’t realise we were  _taking people_. That’s so…TV.”

“It’s prom!” Mels laughs. “Of course we’re taking dates. It’s what you do for prom.”

“Well—“ Amy panics. “Who are you taking, then?”

She can practically hear Mels shrug. “Oh, someone or other. Ryan from Maths is hot and single, so maybe him. “

“Has he asked you?”

“God, Amy, what century are you  _from_? I can ask him myself, thank you.”

“I –“ Amy frowns; conversations with Mels always seem to have a so frustratingly  _knowing_ tone these days. “I know that! So, have you?”

“Not yet,” Mels yawns. “And don’t distract. Who’re you going to go with?”

“Uh,” Amy manages, and then she gets stuck; Rory’s her only  _boy_  friend, and he’s moved to Leeds to go to study nursing. “Hey, you can go with me!”

For a minute, she thinks she’s actually done it; she actually thinks she’s taken Mels by surprise. Then, she hears that same, half-smug laugh. “Nice try, sweetie, but straight girls aren’t my type.”

“I…I have turned gay for you.”

“How convincing.”

They end up laughing about the idea of Amy asking Rory to come back  _just_ to go to prom with her, and the look on his face, for the best part of an hour; but by the time prom rolls around, Amy’s no closer to deciding on a date than she was months in advance. She decides, in one last fit of stubborn  _fuck you_ to her entire school, to go stag. She wears her highest heels and a dress Mels lends her that exposes her back and her legs and her chest and her – well, there isn’t a lot of dress, and what fabric  _Is_ there is clingy and shimmery and  _really fucking sexy._ The dress is gold, the heels dark blue, and she picks out one concession to traditional prom attire; a corsage of bluebells that she wears around her left wrist.

Amy Pond is the centre of attention that night, and for the first time, she feels like it was her choice.

**_three_.**

“Hey, Doctor, it’s me again,” Amy says distractedly, poking at a pot bubbling on the hob and awkwardly pressing her phone against her cheek. “So, it’s been a few months, in case you lost count, and the cubes are still…here. Doing nothing. Being cubes.  Just…sitting there. You could see them doing that if you were, you know,  _here._ ”

“Amy? Home!”

She hangs up, throwing the phone into the cutlery drawer, and turns her attention back to the rapidly-charring stew.  _Fuck_.

Rory comes in, already tugging his scrubs off and running a hand over his face. “Hey, you,” he grins, washing his hands under the sink and pulling Amy close for a kiss. “All right?”

“All right,” Amy laughs. “Eugh, wet hands,  _cold_!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he smirks, rubbing his hand across her cheek and laughing harder when she makes a disgusted face. “How are you, anyway?”

“All right,” Amy says again, turning back to the stew. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“It’s burned, look, it’s all sticking, fuck, I wanted to have something nice for you after your shift and I messed up, shit, shit,  _shit_ —“

“Hey,” Rory interjects, stepping in and pressing a kiss to her hair. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

“No it’s  _not_ ,” Amy insists – he’s being very gentle, very kind, but somehow she still feels absurdly close to tears, and that definitely has  _nothing_  to do with the moment he chose to walk into the kitchen.

“It’ll be fine, look,” Rory says smoothly. “We just need to ladle it into a new pot, yeah?”

He reaches around her to for a new saucepan, setting it on the hob with a sharp  _ring_ of metal, and then pulls open the cutlery drawer.

Amy’s heart is still hammering sickly against her ribs, and suddenly she can’t breathe.

Wordlessly, Rory hands her the phone, still open on the unanswered call. “You dropped this,” he says tonelessly, then turns to fixing the stew.  Amy sinks into a chair, and presses her knuckles against her forehead. Eventually the stifling silence becomes too much, and she looks up at Rory’s hunched back with a sudden burst of energy.

“I was only calling to check in –“

“I don’t want to hear it,” Rory says quietly. 

“It’s been months, Rory, and the cubes really  _are_ weird –“

“It’s been, what,” he interrupts her then, with a sort of savagely cutting tone. “Three days since you called last? Or, three days since you last decided to tell me about calling him.”

A small grain of anger flickers up into an ember inside Amy then. “I don’t have to _ask for your permission,_ Rory.”

Rory laughs humourlessly. “Of course you don’t,” he says, with an edge of finality. “Tell me, did you call up the string quartet today, and ask about booking them for next weekend? Like we discussed?”

For a moment, Amy is lost. “Next…” she half-asks. “Next weekend?” A muscle in Rory’s jaw tightens, and Amy feels like she’s in free-fall for another ten seconds. Then she lands with a sickening, spine-shuddering thud. “Right, yeah, no, I’ll call them first thing tomorrow morning!”

“Tomorrow morning we’re going to the florists,” Rory says quietly. “To pick up the centre-pieces. It’s booked for ten thirty.”

“I’ll call them before ten thirty,” Amy says, too brightly. Then: “Wait. Flowers? We haven’t picked the flowers yet.”

Rory shrugs. “I rang up and ordered some I think you’ll like.”

She feels the dismissal sink into her limbs like clay, and finds she can’t pull free before it drags her under. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Rory eyes her half-incredulously.

“Yes, of course it’s okay,” Amy nods, and then nods again. “I don’t care about the flowers, it’s fine!”

She knows almost instantly that this was the wrong thing to say; Rory’s eyes darken, and he makes to leave the room; Amy grabs his elbow, makes him stop.

“I’m sure what you chose was lovely,” she says quickly, tripping over her words, tasting fear in the back of her throat, sharp and acrid and far too familiar.  _Don’t leave._ Everything she does now can only be about damage control. “But I’d like to pick a few special bouquets out when we go tomorrow, okay? I’m really looking forward to it. Ten years! Pretty special, right?”

Rory stares at her with something frighteningly foreign in his eyes for another full minute, and then his gaze softens. “Ten years,” he echoes. “Pretty special.”

 She ends up spending a surprisingly enjoyable two hours at the florist’s; all Rory’s centrepiece designs – safe beiges and pinks, and gold bows – are thrown out and re-done, and the anniversary ends up being decked out in the brightest colours Amy can find. Pink roses, purple dahlias, orange tulips, all surrounded by lush green leaves and ferns. Her personal favourite is an arrangement that matches her dress; red poppies, yellow sunflowers, and the bluest bluebells.

**_four._ **

The day they sign the adoption papers is the day Amy goes into planning mode. Everything has to be perfect – the nursery with the soft yellow wallpaper and the fluffy comforter in the wicker-and-cotton crib,  the delightfully picturesque black stroller, the rompers and sweaters and tiny boots in varying sizes. She cleans their house from the rafters of the attic down to the steps leading into the basement, she polishes every piece of silverware in the kitchen, she prunes the garden and mows the lawn…

“I thought nesting was a hormonal thing,” Rory says, amused, when he come home from work one day to find Amy hanging out the sheets to air in the hallway for the third time that week.

She laughs, wiping her hands on her skirt and coming over to rest her hands on his hips. “Are you implying I’m, what?  _Menopausal_?”

“No! Amy, don’t be –“ Rory sputters. “I was saying no such thing, that’s ridiculous, that doesn’t even make any  _sense_ –“

“Kidding, stupid,” she smiles, kissing him gently before turning away to hang up another sheet. “I want things to be perfect, that’s all.”

“If you say so,” Rory says dubiously. “Is it okay if I go in the kitchen and start on dinner, then?”

“Yes, but take your shoes off, I just polished the floor again,” Amy says quickly – and then grins reluctantly when she sees Rory ogling. “Okay, maybe that was overkill.”

“Maybe,” Rory says weakly, and backs away; Amy goes back to hanging up, taking down, folding, putting away, hanging up, taking down, folding, putting away, hanging up, taking down, folding, putting away…

The rhythm beats at the back of her mind like a drum, keeping her steady, keeping her grounded; sometimes, she thinks that at any moment, one fragile puzzle piece will fall out of place and everything will collapse.

Three days until they pick up the baby. Anthony Raymond Williams. Their  _son_.

If she just stays focused, if she just gets everything ready, if she just makes everything  _perfect_ – then maybe, just maybe, it will stay.

“I got a few things for Tony’s room today,” Rory offers after dinner. “There was a yard sale going on two blocks down from the hospital.”

Amy tears open the bag eagerly, casting aside picture frames – they already have a matching set of empty frames for the nursery – and clothes a few dozen sizes too big – those can go in the attic for a while – before landing on a small round vase, stained glass in warm reds and bright yellows.

“This,” she says quietly, with conviction. “This’ll be perfect.”

It’s the work of a moment to run down to their little garden and pick a small bunch of bluebells; the dark blue sets off the reddish tones perfectly, a splash of colour against the clean starched lines of the nursery. For the first time, when Amy looks around the room she sees a home.

**_five._ **

The thing she hates the most, Amy decides, is how  _fragile_ everyone seems to think she is. The hushed tones, the gentle hands, the hooded eyes and kind looks. She’s not made of paper; she isn’t going to blow away in the breeze.

“Mrs Williams,” the florist says, coming out to clasp her left hand gently –  _ever-so-gently –_ between both of his. “We’re all so sorry for your loss.”

 _No you aren’t,_ Amy thinks, in a voice much younger than her own.  _You don’t know me. All you know is an old lady who’s here to buy enough wreaths to keep you in your fancy apartment for another week._

What she says, instead, is a quiet “Thank you.”

Going over the different price bands and options is a new kind of torture, but one that she’s quickly becoming accustomed to; grief, she is learning, is a business much like anything else. The world keeps turning. This florist, like the caterers, like the taxi firm, like the undertakers at the funeral home – they’re all just trying to make a living, and she can’t begrudge them that.

She just wishes there was someone here to laugh when she says, “No wax, please, they’ll melt. I want funeral flowers, not a birthday cake.”

Instead all she gets is awkward silences, fixed smiles, gentle words of reassurance.  _Just laugh,_ she wants to shout.  _It’s a fucking joke. Laugh._

In the end, she gets through the appointment with the florist like she’s getting through everything else these days; with a quiet and stubborn kind of indifference. What does she care what kind of flowers they are? They’re not supposed to be there for  _her_ , or for anyone else alive to see them, and anyway – they’re just going to burn, aren’t they?

Primroses will be fine, she insists, after twenty minutes. And the white roses. A few lilies, because that’s sort of expected of a funeral, isn’t it? Then Tony arrives, grey-skinned and with new creases around his eyes, and gently suggests that they could put a few bluebells in the family wreath.

“You always had bluebells in the garden, remember, mom?”

Yes.  _Yes,_ she remembers; she wishes she didn’t. That particular wound is not one she wants to touch today, or ever. If ever she was going to apologise for the bluebells, her chance has finally passed once and for all.

“No bluebells,” she says, with quiet conviction. “Your dad was never too fond of them.”


End file.
